


Sister Sinner

by HollyKasakabe



Series: Tumblr Requests [13]
Category: Criminal Minds, White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Crime, Drama, F/M, Family, Reader Insert, Romance, Tumblr, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyKasakabe/pseuds/HollyKasakabe
Summary: Do you do cross-overs? I was thinking Neal Caffrey’s younger sister works with the BAU, her brother, Mozzie, and Peter on a case, and ends up crushing on Derek Morgan.





	1. Chapter One

            As a freelance CI, you got to spend much more time with Neal without having to sneak around. Although you weren’t exactly pleased with spending so much time with Peter at first, you’d warmed up to him over time and considered him a good friend. (You still preferred his wife.) Where the WCCD team was concerned – well, you were just glad that Diana and Cruz hadn’t been on Neal’s case way back when. They were kinda scary.

            The debriefing was pretty normal for a case of insurance fraud. You and Neal had found ways to communicate and distract each other from the boring overviews of things that were of really no interest whatsoever while the rest of the agents sat up straight and raised their hands to ask questions like good little students. Peter had made it against the rules to text during meetings, so you and Neal had started to write letters onto each other’s hands under the table. After that, he started making you sit on opposite sides.

            He had yet to pick up on that you were tapping out messages to each other in Morse code.

            _Don’t look. Ruiz is in white-collar._

            Of course, your first impulse was to look, but con artistry taught you to rein those in. You carefully tapped your fingers on the table, just hard enough to be deliberate but light enough not to make a noticeable sound to the agents on either side of you.

            _Does he look mad?_

            It was a well-known fact that Ruiz was not part of the cheering section for the WCCD. In fact, he jeered even in team-building sports that you were forced to attend. He tried prying incriminating information out of you when you ran into each other in the cafeteria. He tried to bully Neal away from crime scenes. He was a decent agent, and knew how to get the job done, but he was not a nice person, and if it was fair to say that he was anti-Peter, then it was an understatement to say he was anti-Caffrey, no matter which Caffrey was in question.

            Neal caught your eye and raised an eyebrow. You tilted your head very slightly. With those two tiny gestures alone, he had asked you if you were asking a serious question and you had admitted that Ruiz practically always seemed mad.

            “Y/N,” Jones said your name suddenly, wry and a little amused. _Oh._ They hadn’t figured out the Morse code yet, but at least one person had seen you and your brother making eye contact.

            “I’m paying attention,” you said, giving Jones a winning smile and batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. “Neal said the painting’s a forgery, the provenances were proven to be forgeries, and now we just need to know who fenced the real one.”

            Jones chuckled. “You’re a dangerous woman sometimes, Miss Caffrey.”

            “You flatter me,” you responded with a smile.

            Neal chuckled, leaning back in his chair. He’d taught you most everything you knew, but the body language and the lines you used for flirting had been taught to you by Kate.

            The open conference room door was pushed open wider. You, along with everyone else in the room, turned your heads to see Ruiz.

            “Eric,” Peter greeted, holding a folder closed with the spine against his palm. “Looking particularly morally indignant today, I see. How can we help you?”

            Ruiz, grinding his teeth and glowering at Peter, crossed his arms and held his chin high, not taking the bait. “We have guests in my department. They’re experts from Quantico.” You and Neal both shared another look, and you beat out a rapid note to him with your fingers.

            _So he’s saying he’s not an expert?_

            Neal started to grin but caught himself, looking back up at Ruiz with a very serious and understanding face.

            “They want to borrow a Caffrey,” Ruiz finished, very intentionally not looking at you _or_ your brother. Peter smiled secretly behind his hand. He did like that his CIs were known to consistently be the best.

            Neal pushed his chair out from the table in a move to stand up. “I’m getting more popular!” He declared pleasantly.

            “Not you,” Ruiz snapped shortly.

            Both of you turned to stare at the homicide investigator with wide eyes. You pointed at your own chest. Neal pointed at you, seconding the silent question. Neal was well-known for how well he performed undercover. When you went into the field, it was, more often than not, as an observational consultant or a distraction for Neal to get past a suspect. Because Neal was essentially an indentured servant while you had never been convicted, the bureau preferred to place him in the more dangerous situations. Using you made them more vulnerable to liability lawsuits. As such, Neal was the go-to for anything dangerous, and you were more commonly the criminal version of Diana.

            Still, you smiled delightedly, showing your best charismatic glee. “People are noticing I exist!”

            Peter came over to your chair, put a hand on your shoulder, and stated to Ruiz, “You don’t want her.”

            You looked up at him, wounded and a little insulted. The stinging feeling faded when you saw how concerned and guarded Peter was and you realized he was just worried about you. Nevertheless, he was interfering in your opportunity to do something interesting for once.

            “Why don’t you love me?” You demanded of him solemnly.

            Peter didn’t miss a beat. “My wife is superior to all other beings.”

            “Good answer,” Diana snickered.

            The camaraderie and easygoing comedy just annoyed Ruiz even further. “What do you want for me to borrow her, Burke?” Ruiz asked impatiently. “I could bring the Quantico guys up here, but they’ve already set up shop with a bulletin downstairs. I will if I have to. We need an informant and yours fits the bill. She’d be perfect if she wasn’t a criminal, but we can’t do better.”

            Your first thought wasn’t very polite, so you went with a second one. “It’s innocent until proven guilty, Eric,” you chided, using his first name because you knew it would press his buttons. “I’m an angel. If you look at me in the sunlight you can see a faint impression of my ethereal halo.”

            “Actually,” Peter said with a very innocent and amicable face. “Y/N isn’t obligated by any contract to work for me. Unlike Neal, she has the right to make that decision herself. If you want her to make a temporary position in violent crimes, all you can do is present the details to her and let her choose.”

            Ruiz looked incredibly upset that he couldn’t just get a leash to yank you around on from your supervising agent, but while Peter was the agent who supervised your consulting work, the FBI didn’t have leverage on you the way they did with a lot of their informants. Mozzie and Neal were always very, very meticulous about keeping your record clean, especially once Neal was officially on a wanted list.

            To rub it in, you stood up gracefully and folded your hands in front of you. “Let’s go,” you beamed at Ruiz. “I wanna meet the team from Quantico. Maybe I can ask them about the programs at the FBI Academy.”

            Ruiz snarled as he stepped aside to let you lead the way out. “You can’t join the FBI.”

            “Innocent until proven guilty,” you sang, winking at a grinning Diana on your way out.

            “You just wait,” Ruiz threatened. “You’ll slip up one day, Caffrey, and I’ll be waiting.”

            “Oh, my,” you said in hushed surprise. “Are you going to stalk me like Peter stalked Neal? This is exciting. I can lure you out to Paris when I’m actually in Brussels, and I can send you some champagne and a reminder to go home to your wife before your anniversary.”

            “Shut up and walk!”

_“I missed you,” you sniffed, your eyes tearing up. You blinked and let them roll partway down your face, falling onto Neal’s turtleneck and wetting his shoulder._

_“You have no idea,” he whispered back, taking you by the shoulders and holding you at arm’s length. He smiled with pride and affection. “You look so much older.” You blushed. You’d last seen him at seventeen, and now you were twenty-two._

_“You’re one to talk,” you said, prodding his cheek. “You look ten years older.”_

_“Yeah, but I’m still pretty,” he charmingly said._

_“And modest,” you agreed dryly._

_Both of you stared at each other for another minute, hardly able to believe that after so long, you were finally back together. You were going to thank Moz next time you saw him, possibly with a bottle of wine worth hundreds of dollars, because nothing he had ever done for you had ever meant as much as this – as letting you be the first person to welcome Neal back into the real world beyond grey prison walls._

_“If you ever get arrested again,” you vowed emotionally, “I’m going to make you bleed.”_

            You, like your brother, had all the skills to charm at least ninety percent of the people you met – you simply didn’t like people the way Neal did, and you generally kept to yourself. There were very few faces in the violent crimes division that you recognized, even including Ruiz.

            He took you to a conference room. It was the same layout as the WCCD, and had several floors’ worth of ceilings and floors caved in, you would then be in the same space as your team, yet again. This room was fuller than the one you’d just left, filled with a tall and lanky man in a sweater vest, a tall and dark-haired man who might as well have _boss_ written on his forehead, a big and strong-looking black man, a slim and pretty blonde woman, and an older European man sitting down around the table. They all had guns in holsters at their waists, even the one that looked like he belonged in a university. Peter carried a gun, and you could shoot just as well as any agent, but Neal’s attitude towards weapons had made you wary around them.

            “Hotchner, I got just the kind of girl you asked for,” Ruiz announced, leaving the door wide open. You made yourself look far more comfortable than you felt – when you looked uneasy, people tended to treat you like you weren’t qualified for whatever it was you wanted. “Y/N Caffrey.”

            The teacher’s aid turned to you and looked over your face with intent curiosity. “Any relation to the art forger?”

            You waved with a smirk. “My brother was never convicted of any art forgeries.”

            The oldest man turned a smug look on the blond, who smiled at you apologetically and nervously, and he started chewing on his lip. The guy sitting next to him slugged his shoulder, laughing.

            “Reid’s mouth runs almost as fast as his brain,” he said to you, giving you the same sort of handsome smile your brother often flashed. Unlike with Neal, you could tell his was sincere. “SSA Derek Morgan. That’s Spencer Reid.”

            “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Caffrey,” the boss of the unit said, reaching over the table to shake your hand. “We’re sorry to pull you from your team.”

            “Don’t be. No insurance fraud is interesting unless Sterling Bosch is involved,” you answered jokingly, waving it off. It was no secret that insurance fraud was your least favorite crime to look into, despite having – allegedly! – had a hand in it before. “So, I’m dying to know what kind of criteria you listed to make this grunt think _oh, I think she fits the role perfectly._ ”

            The old one raised his hand, then pointed to himself. “SSA David Rossi.” Rossi lowered his arm and looked at you seriously. “What do you know about La Cosa Nostra?”

            You frowned slightly and didn’t care if they saw. The last time anything had come up with organized crime, your brother had almost been killed, and you’d fought for your life against a hired muscleman. “The Italian mafia hasn’t had as threatening a presence in America since around the time the Patriot Act was put in place,” you summarized, just to prove you knew what you were talking about. “The Russians have been a more current threat – and trust me, I might know a guy who the Russians dislike, and they’re definitely scarier than the Italians.”

            “We’re not so sure about that,” the blonde woman put in with a grimace. “There have been several murders in the Harlem area that have key signs of enforcers carrying out the crimes.”

            “For various reasons, we believe that this is the work of a La Cosa Nostra family.” The boss nodded slightly to Reid, who perked up.

            “We have our suspicions about the Gambinos,” he said, tapping a pencil against his forefinger with a slight smile. “Although they’ve been generally more in the shadows since Richard Kuklinski’s arrest and subsequent conviction, they’ve left a distinct signature.”

            Derek nodded in corroboration. “What we need is someone to get in with the Gambino’s Don. He’s a traditionalist – he won’t trust men without years of rapport we don’t have time to build. Without completely burning a real agent’s identity, we can’t offer out one of our own.”

            The boss met your eyes gravely. “I won’t lie to you, Miss Caffrey; this is dangerous. You’re under no obligation. Agent Ruiz brought you to us because he believes you can do the job. As the sister of a con artist, you must realize how hard it can be to pretend to be someone else, even under threat of death.”

            You smiled wryly. “Just the _sister_ of a conman? Hypothetically, my brother and I were on our own for years. Try asking yourself how no one knew who I was until I told them.”

            “Ha!” Ruiz interrupted loudly, pointing at you. “You just confessed! I told you, Caffrey, you and your brother’s arrogance-“

            “Actually,” Derek intervened, raising an eyebrow at Ruiz skeptically, “She said _hypothetically._ ”

            Smiling briefly at Derek, you continued to speak. “I understand danger, Agents. One of my brother’s former employers tried to have me killed to send a message. So.” You clapped your hands excitedly and broke into a smile, hoping that the butterflies in your stomach would dissipate sooner rather than later. “When do I start?”


	2. Chapter Two

            _You still had a stitch in your side from your almost mile-long sprint away from a beat cop when you heard a knock on the door._

            _Neal taught you many things, but one thing he hadn’t had to teach you was to watch your back. You were a fourteen-year-old living on the run with your brother, who was still so young most people wouldn’t place him any older than twenty. You looked like easy victims. Living as criminals also meant that not only did you make enemies from the people you conned and stole from, but it also meant you had to be extra careful of what you did and said around police. You had to be sure they couldn’t misconstrue anything you said or did._

_The first thing you did was look through the peephole, checking for a uniform. No, it wasn’t the cop you’d ditched. It was a short guy, who looked very physically unimpressive – he had an ugly fake wig and a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt, and white khakis – but looks could be deceiving. After all, you looked like a sweet little girl, but you’d just gone around Central Park, pickpocketing enough money to pay the rent._

_“Open up!” The guy called. He didn’t yell, just knocked on the door again, maybe a little harder._

_You hesitated before you did as he said. Maybe he was just the landlord._

_The door opened slowly. You leaned on the frame so that you could close it quickly if you needed to, and the man couldn’t see very far into the apartment. He was old, easily ten, possibly twenty years older than Neal._

_He blinked at you, surprised. You were not who he had expected. You took it to your advantage, made your most confused and nervous face, and adopted a quiet, anxious, meek child’s voice._

_“I – I’m sorry, sir,” you whispered to him, looking apologetic and stricken at the same time. “I’m not supposed to let people in when my daddy’s not home.” Neal often played his good looks to his advantage. You’d lost weight without having parents to feed you, despite Neal’s best efforts, so you looked smaller than you were. You chose to utilize that._

_Just then, your brother came out from the hallway, toweling off his damp, dark hair. “Y/N?” He called, looking around for you. You panicked, but just for a second, and hoped it didn’t show on your face._

_You sniffled and rubbed your nose. “I’ve gotta go,” you told the stranger at the door, making a sad face and starting to close the door. For effect, you started talking to Neal while still sure you could be heard. “How much longer until mommy and daddy get home?”_

_But it was too late. Although Neal realized you’d been talking to an uninvited visitor, he had already spoken and let his voice be heard. The man in front of you started to push the door open. “Hey, just wait a minute-“_

_You felt the door being shoved back at you and did the first thing you thought of: you punched him in the jaw as hard as you could._

_“No,” Neal muttered, reaching for your shoulder. He pulled you back out of the way and tried to set you behind the door and out of view. Petrified, you let him move you back. Neal stepped up to the door, towel clenched in one hand, and started to hold it half-closed again. “Look, I’m sorry. Forget she’s here, please. You can have your money back.”_

_The man’s answer sounded very pained. “I don’t want the money.”_

_By now you realized that Neal must’ve stolen from him, and he’d tracked you both down. Although you were afraid of what he might want, if not restitution, you moved back into view, standing just behind Neal and watching the two older men with trepidation._

_Neal tightened his grip on the door. “You did the job perfectly,” he said tensely. “I just cheated. I’m no one. You won’t ever see me again.”_

_The man, who you would shortly learn to call Mozzie, turned his eyes past Neal and to you. He looked over your defensive stance and then looked back up to Neal. He surveyed both of you, looking intently at your faces, before he came to a conclusion._

_“Oh,” he said simply, dropping his hand from his bruising jaw. “Your sister can sure pack a punch. Good thing I’m on your team.”_

            Though you were pleased with your assignment, Mozzie definitely was not. The Gambinos were a big target. If a Caffrey helped take down a Gambino, maybe the bureau would be a little more lenient on Neal. You could hope.

            “Are you insane?!” Moz yelled at you from the couch while you leaned forward to the mirror, sliding your earrings in. “Clearly, you must be, because there’s no other explanation for why you would _willingly_ walk into this – this – this _death trap!”_

            “Relax, Moz,” you said over your shoulder, standing up straight and dusting off your blazer. You smiled at your reflection and then gave a small, excited wave to Neal, who was standing back in the kitchen sipping on coffee. “I know what I’m doing. I’m going to wear a very discreet microphone courtesy of their techie, I’m going to make friends, and then I’m getting out as soon as I have something linking them to the murders.” You turned around, twirling to show off your form-fitting jeans. You wanted to look like an adult, but you didn’t want to be taken as seriously as, say, a fed. “Easy-peasy. Besides, Neal got Keller, Dorsett, and Wilkes, all within a year. I’m falling behind.”

            “It’s not a points system,” Neal objected, his brow tightened. He had already voiced his concerns. You knew that neither of them were exactly happy with your decision, and admittedly, it made you a little less optimistic. You preferred when your friends had your backs. You knew that Neal would drop everything for you if you asked – Mozzie, too – but you’d like to be treated like an adult. Moz didn’t throw tantrums when Neal started in on loan sharks that resorted to arson when they weren’t paid.

            “Look, the Gambinos are the type that hire contractors,” you reasoned, simply enough for it to feel understandable and safe. “As long as no strange players come in, I figure I’ll be okay if I watch my back, watch my drinks, and lie well. Which I learned to do from the best.”

            Mozzie cleared his throat and put his empty wine glass down. “I want the record to show that I detest this idea. That Ruiz guy has some nerve, asking you to do this!”

            “Moz, relax,” Neal rolled his eyes. “Besides, Ruiz is the last one that wanted to ask Y/N. Y/N asked herself, more or less, and Ruiz was just more like a messenger that there was an opportunity.”

            You sent him a grateful smile over your shoulder. “Exactly,” you agreed. “I promise I’ll be careful. Their team is going to have my back the whole time. If at any time I ever need a way out, they’re on standby. Morgan’s ready to raid, Jareau will stage a phone call, Hotchner will have a distraction provided by the on-site team. Whatever the situation calls for.”

            You didn’t mention that you were secretly more than a little worried about this first meeting. You knew that if you admitted to being anxious, Neal would fret that your nerves would get in the way of your performance, and he might fight you more on this. There was very little he could say to change your mind – people were dying, you had to do _something_ – but you always preferred to have him in your corner.

            You also neglected to mention that there was a degree of inevitability that if something did go wrong, you would likely be dead before you had the chance to send any sort of signal to anyone in the BAU. The mafia didn’t become _the mafia_ by playing fair or giving advance notices. They became feared because they were dangerous, and you were voluntarily going into a meeting with a lion roused from the den.

            You gave the conference room door a solid knock before you opened it. You entered before giving anyone the chance to hide what they were doing. It was customary for Caffreys to get their noses in everywhere, even without invitation. You found that knocking and then quickly entering was accepted in the bureau more often than you’d have expected; if it seemed like you were in a rush, no one cared as much about politeness as much as they cared about something that may or may not be a matter of urgent response. Such is the life of agents where they make a lot of enemies and handle general public safety.

            “There she is,” Rossi greeted you. The agents of the BAU were all sitting around the table with the exception of Garcia, who was standing by the front of the room, holding a remote to the on-screen projector but covering her eyes with her arm. “Miss Sofia.”

            “Sofia?” You asked, interested, casting Hotchner one of your patented _excuse me, sir_ smiles as you pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.

            “We’ve had a fake ID made. We think if you use an Italian name, you could be accepted into the group faster.” Reid explained. You nodded; it made sense. People trusted their own sooner than they trusted outsiders.

            “So, Miss Sofia,” Rossi repeated with a smirk, “Welcome to the Italian crime scene.”

            _“Grazie,”_ you grinned, neglecting to mention that you’d been on the scene before – robbing the Italian Consulate would probably just get you arrested. The statute of limitations hadn’t passed on that yet. “So, fill me in on my cover.”

            Garcia, Reid, and Morgan all told you everything you would need to know. They believed the Gambinos were getting involved in arms trafficking to supplement a future comeback of La Cosa Nostra as the dominant family, so Sofia was an Italian-American arms trader with planted references from Sicily, Naples, Amsterdam, Nice, and British Columbia. Ruiz had his department’s own CIs start rumors that Sofia was in the city looking to make a trade on military-grade weapons before she was flagged by American customs, which meant there was a degree of rapidity required in making a deal. Hopefully, according to Morgan, it would cut back the time frame, allowing you to get in and out of the op sooner and preventing the body count from rising higher than it already had. Reid was sure to throw in, however, that it meant you wouldn’t have as long to build a rapport before they had to let you in or risk losing their supposed weaponry, and that meant you were in a more precarious situation if you were compromised.

            “Hey,” Morgan said softly across the table, intentionally catching your eyes. Your confident smirk dimmed slightly. “Last chance to back out now, Y/N. We start this at eleven tonight. Once you’re in, you have to see it through. If you stop halfway, they’ll look into you and find you’re not who you say you are.”

            _And then they’ll kill me, and possibly my brother._ You thought to yourself, almost – _almost_ – second-guessing your willingness to do this.

            Then again, Neal had taken down Lao Shen, even though the Chinese could’ve had you killed if Neal had been made. You used to both be very, very cautious, but since Neal had been incarcerated, that had changed. You needed money, which meant larger schemes. Then the FBI forced Neal at worse targets, and him saying no would’ve gotten him imprisoned again. It was by your own insistence that Caffreys had become high-profile targets, because you wouldn’t let him be caged just because he was worried about you.

            “Thanks,” you told him honestly. You hated how sometimes it felt like the bureau only saw you and Neal as tools. It was nice to be treated like a person and have agents recognize the danger you were volunteering for. “But I’m the most qualified consultant you have. Say what you will about my brother and I, but we’re anti-violence. Killers need to be stopped.”

            “Alright then.” Hotch (as he preferred to be called) stood up from his seat slowly, moving to close the door to the conference room. “The meeting is covert. You go in, you respond to your alias, and you wait to be approached.”

            “And then try to convince them to take me back to wherever their hideout is.” You reasoned. “So when I get probable cause, you guys can get a specific address on your warrant.”

            “But don’t be the one to suggest it.” Prentiss told you sternly, shaking her head. “If you can steer it in that direction, that would be great. Just don’t ask to go there. No matter what we need, don’t do something that could make you into a threat.”

            “You need a help signal, just in case something goes wrong.” Morgan leaned onto the table, tapping a capped pen over a document summarizing your alias’ history. “Is there a word or a phrase that you can remember under pressure, that can be slipped into conversation without alerting them?”

            You opened your mouth, but stopped and leaned back. With your toes, you rocked your chair, thinking seriously. Neal was usually assigned his phrases, but you supposed that choosing your own ensured you would be able to think of them even if you had a gun to your head.

            It took you a moment, but you were able to come up with two words that held such suspenseful and terrorizing associations to you that you would never in your life be able to forget.

            “Music box,” you told him simply, neglecting to expand on your answer, even when Prentiss, Reid, and Garcia all looked at you in confused inquisition. “Trust me,” you told Morgan, who had arched an eyebrow in reluctant skepticism. “There’s no way I’d ever forget ‘music box.’”


	3. Chapter Three

            The first part of the operation was supposed to be the simplest, but to you, it was the worst. Sitting at a bar, sipping on an apple martini, _waiting_ to be approached by a strongman within the closely-knit family, felt like you were a gazelle at the watering hole. At least when you were engaged, you had cards you could play. You may not be able to win in a fight if the person was any stronger than Mozzie, but as long as you could run your mouth, you were never entirely helpless. Of course, that required having someone to run your mouth _to_.

            There was a wire underneath your clothes and a small tracking chip installed inside one of the medium-sized stud earrings you wore. The wire was wrapped around your abdomen and you could feel it between your breasts where it was threaded over your bra. Your high-necked blouse ensured that it wouldn’t be seen, but no matter how many times you let the feds deck you out, it never felt normal. Your pleated skirt was the only part of your ensemble you might’ve normally worn. Your shoes looked nice, but they had heels that Sara could substitute her baton for.

            You were out of your depth a little. In truth, the majority of your experience with violent crimes had been as a victim, not an investigator. Adler, Larssen, Wilkes, Dobbs and Collins – they’d all tried to hurt you, typically because they wanted something to hold over Neal’s head. Luckily for you, your resourcefulness and a little help from Neal (and occasionally, you grudgingly admitted, from Peter) your worst injuries had amounted to a minor concussion and a broken bone. You knew it could’ve been a much different story, so whenever you could avoid it, you didn’t get involved.

            This time, though, people were dying. Maybe years ago, that wouldn’t have been enough of an incentive for you. When you were on the run with Neal, Mozzie, and Kate – your own little crew – you had lived by a few principles, one of them being that you had to look after yourselves first. Now you understood that just because it might get you hurt didn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. The FBI was out of ideas. Their only semi-legitimate alternative was likely to decimate someone’s real life, assuming they weren’t killed, and of all their consultants, you were the one who probably wouldn’t get murdered. If you refused, more people would die, and you couldn’t take that on your conscience.

            Someone pulled out the bar stool to your right and sat down heavily, twirling around so their legs were under the counter. You resolutely didn’t look until you had finished your martini. You wanted to act like you weren’t nervous or in a hurry. It wasn’t _too_ difficult – you’d been hit on enough to learn not to make your responses very obvious.

            Finally, you put down your empty glass and turned your head to look at your guest. The bartender had stopped by, but he had waved the man off. He looked big, heavyset – strong. Not someone you wanted to make mad at you. Opting for Alex’s tried and true approach – seductive and cunning – you rolled your shoulders back with your hands in your lap, licking your lips as you faced him.

            Sharp brown eyes, thick black hair in a buzz cut, and what looked like a prison tat on the lower left side of his neck gave you a pretty good idea of his temperament. His biceps and pecs were visible through his solid black shirt, a shadow of thin stubble decorated his jaw, and his nose was crooked from being broken. Even if you didn’t know how to tell prison tattoos apart from others, you would’ve been nervous to be alone with him.

            Not for the first time, you questioned exactly how quickly Derek would be able to get to you if you had to raise the alarm.

            You’d always been pretty cynical, but you’d learned to keep your mouth shut when you thought not-so-nice things. In this instance, you wondered what the likelihood of him crushing your fingers would be if you shook his hands. Whatever the statistic was, it probably looked better for you than the odds of being pummeled if you pissed him off, so politeness it was.

            “Sofia,” you said, lightly accenting your voice. Accents could make or break a role; you and Neal could mimic most of them. Rossi had been impressed. You gave your new alias’ last name and held out your hand, fingernails manicured in hot pink.

            “Gio,” he responded in a grunt, looking over your shoulder. As you’d predicted, his grip was firm almost to the point of being painful. He held on longer than strictly necessary, and you fought off a grimace and the urge to shake your hand out when he let go.

            Flagging down the bartender, you ordered yourself another martini, and a gin tonic for your new pal. He seemed like the type to enjoy gin tonics. The bartender mixed the drinks in front of you, even doing a trick by throwing the mixing canister, but you were a bit more interested in making sure your neck wasn’t going to be snapped.

            “Well, Gio, I trust you understand my situation.” You kept your voice light and took your drink straight to your mouth when it was handed to you. For the muscleman’s part, he didn’t even touch the alcohol supplied to him. You swallowed and licked your lips again, combating a dry throat. “There’s a very nice collection of very nice toys being brought through from Canada.” You avoided words like _armament_ and _smuggled_ – you wanted to be direct, but you also wanted to act like a halfway-competent smuggler. “I’d like to get it off of my hands.” You offered a thin smile and held up your fingernails. “That much residue really isn’t good for my cuticles.”

            Though you strongly doubted Gio – if that was even his real name – gave a damn about your cuticles, you seemed to have struck a chord. He stared at you contemplatively. You smiled saccharinely and tapped your nails on the counter. Gio wasn’t the one who was calling the shots. If he was, then honestly, the BAU didn’t need _you_ to be the one undercover; they could’ve just sent in an agent or one of Ruiz’s department’s CIs. You had to assume that he was wearing something that either recorded your conversation or streamed it live to one of the bosses, or someone who the Gambinos trusted.

            Regardless, you played nice. You did exactly as you were supposed to and delicately chose your phrasings, discussing with tact a heavy-duty artillery that would be untraceable to the source (your gain). Gio asked thinly-veiled questions and made what sounded very obviously like a poorly-obscured threat on the behalf of the people he worked for, to which you mentioned aloofly that he should _try the tonic; the mixologist knows what he’s doing._

            Neal had had operations that went much worse, much sooner, so even as more than an hour had passed, you relaxed gradually without changing your posture externally. A con artist that didn’t know fear was a dead con artist; you knew better than to take your nerves lightly. As they lessened, you became more optimistic that Derek was right, and this would be a quickly-burned persona with no more bloodshed.

            “There is one more thing.” Gio had trouble understanding your English when you started to speak a little faster, so you’d courteously slowed down closer to his pace. The heavy Italian accent and the punctuated pauses made everything he said seem just a little more intimidating. It was a little unfair. “Miss Sofia, my employers do not appreciate being spied upon.”

            “It’s bad for my business, too,” you flippantly agreed.

            “So perhaps, you can tell me,” he said, shifting his shoulders, his muscles bulging as his hands curled into fists on the countertop beside his full glass of liquor, “Why there is an unmarked automobile outside.”

            You scoffed, hoping against hope that the backup team would let you handle the situation. Part of you desperately wanted them to skedaddle, but the other part knew that, not only would that be suspicious, but if they went too far, they would lose the signal from the wire and then you would _have_ no backup.

            “I thought that was one of yours.” You stiffened, biting the inside of your cheek and peering across the bar. Ostensibly, you were looking for a red flag. In reality, you were trying to see if you recognized any agents in place to help you out. You couldn’t find any.

            Gio’s hands moved while you were distracted. The next thing you knew, the hand that had tried squishing your fingers was attempting to pulverize your wrist. You couldn’t help the audible hiss that escaped you, or the instinctive act of jerking away, but the Italian held on. His uneven but sharp nails pinched your skin while the pressure around the thinner part of your wrist forced your flesh to dig into bones.

            Forcing yourself to keep cool, you held your arm under the table. If anyone saw a woman being held like that, they might try to intervene. While normally you would’ve appreciated a diversion, now you wanted anything but. “If I had wanted to be manhandled,” you furiously whispered, glowering, “I would have gone to the cartels. I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make a trade.”

            There was a delay between your words and the release of your wrist. It was enough to make you suspect that Gio was actually listening to someone talking into his ear, but you didn’t dare to ask. Prentiss’ warnings about not pressing for information echoed in your mind. You were offering; once you had them hooked, they’d give you the info themselves, and they’d feel confident doing it. The less flighty they were, the better everyone’s odds of surviving.

            Gio moved his hands back, but still looked like he had more than half a mind to either roofie your martini and drag you into a big white van or drag you into the bathrooms and put a bullet through your insides. The sooner you were out, the better – maybe you could talk Neal into taking you for coffee once this was over. Coffee sounded good, and having someone else watching your back? Even better.

            “How can my employers be certain?” He questioned you suspiciously, giving you the evil eye. You bit back a sigh and hoped that, if the BAU had been preparing to save the day, they now realized your life wasn’t in immediate peril.

            You considered spinning a story about how many people there were in New York, and tax evasion, and unlicensed vehicles to cheat insurance rates or whatever. Even you knew that wouldn’t fly. La Cosa Nostra was too careful; as Reid mentioned, the undercover cop who’d gotten the evidence on Kuklinski had very nearly been killed himself, as they hadn’t realized until it was almost too late that the hitman had been intending to make the cop his next victim.

            You ran through your list of underworld contacts, sorting through some of Neal’s and your aliases and contacts while you bought time by scoffing and looking into your drink. You sipped from your martini while you rapidly thought, shaking your head in disbelief at the question.

            _Nick, Steve, Lucy, Ben, and Emma – all the wrong backgrounds. James isn’t credible anymore._ It seemed like the majority of aliases that could’ve actually been useful had either been burned during FBI investigations or discredited by some unforeseen circumstance. More than once, you’d had to skip out on a con because you’d realized something more important was happening, including but not limited to threats on yours, or someone else’s, life. While Neal had been in prison, you’d created an identity named Johanna. You’d burned that name yourself to protect a civilian who your mark had been planning to attack. You were far from morally straight, but you had priorities.

            “Rydell,” you decided on by the time you’d set your glass down, shooting an offended and deadpan stare at the strongman, whose eyes hadn’t left you. “Gary Rydell. I make his problems disappear, he gives me favors.” You jerked your head towards the doors. “The unmarked is… insurance.” You smiled thinly. “No one lives in this business without insurance.”

            Gio – and therefore, the Gambinos – seemed to buy it. You made sure to keep your attitude up so it seemed genuine, carefully paying attention to the nuances of things said. Your stress had returned threefold, but you applauded yourself for maneuvering out of certain death (or worse). Though you weren’t exactly looking forward to explaining to Neal that he shouldn’t use that name for a while, you were mostly just glad that he’d had an alias you _could_ lean on. If anyone looked up Rydell, they’d find charges like smuggling, fraud, obstruction, evading arrest – possibly even racketeering, depending on how Peter fenced that last go-round right after Adler’s death. For a person like Sofia, Rydell was a suitable contact.

            “This has been enlightening.” Gio offered you his hand again. Instead of taking it, you pursed your lips and lifted your right arm, showing off the bruises already beginning to color into your skin. He chuckled ( _this isn’t funny, you jackass_ ) and put his hand down.

            “Truly,” you dryly concurred.

            “We will be in touch.”

            Gio left as quickly as he came, and though you watched him go, you were impressed with how such a big man moved so swiftly, especially in a crowd. You pushed your glass away from you, spared a snide look at the untouched tonic, and laid out a fifty-dollar bill on the counter to cover the costs. Sliding off the table, you straightened the hem of your shirt down over the top of your skirt, found your balance on your stilettos, and made a trip to the women’s rooms.

            Inside an empty stall, you pulled up your skirt and took your phone out of a thigh holster. You weren’t allowed to carry a gun, but you didn’t need licenses to buy holsters. Especially when you actually got them from Mozzie. You didn’t have pockets and you needed a way to securely hide your phone. While the BAU could hear everything from your end, you had no other way of communicating with them.

            The dial tone rang only twice before it was picked up. _“Yes?”_ It was JJ’s voice, patient and quiet, with no discernible background noise. She didn’t say who she was, just in case someone else had stolen your phone and was checking your contacts to make sure you weren’t lying.

            “It’s me. He’s gone.” you said, keeping your voice hushed. You were alone in the bathroom, but didn’t think it was possible to be too cautious. “Did you get all that?”


	4. Chapter Four

            “The good news is that he was definitely in contact with someone the entire time. The bad news is that the Gambinos – or whoever else might have been on the mic – only opened their end of the transmission when they communicated into his wire, which was for only seconds at a time and not long enough to trace. The radio signals bouncing out were encrypted very heavily with very dense coding and went through half a dozen proxy servers in the New England area before leaving the country.”

            Garcia looked very nervous as she presented the results of your first undercover meeting with Gio, and although you couldn’t say you had enjoyed being in his company, you were kind of excited that you would have to keep reprising your role as Sofia. It felt good to be the one under pressure for once – the one in the loop, the one whose abilities were coveted, the one who had the power to make it or break it. Since going good, you’d been doing far less of your own thing, mostly because you knew it would make things rough for Neal if Peter (or anyone else in law enforcement, for that matter) caught you.

            “Garcia,” Hotchner prompted, inserting just the one word in his boss voice between her rambling sentences.

            The techie stopped, swallowed, and nodded. “What I’m trying to say, sir, is that they have someone with their own special spice of signal protection that I can’t get through without the cooperation of governments in China, Belarus-“

            “Countries who are less likely to grant American law enforcement access to their satellite data,” you mused. Garcia nodded disappointedly. “Well, that’s fine. We don’t want to catch them now, anyway. We need more evidence, otherwise we’ve got them on shady charges at best. We want them on smuggling, even if we can’t nail ‘em for murder.”

            “He said _they_ will be in touch. He wasn’t speaking on his own.” Prentiss took a glance at Reid, who nodded and then repeated, word-for-word, what Gio had said to you. Your eyes lingered on him for a moment – _odd but useful,_ kind of like Mozzie’s photographic memory. The black-haired woman continued with her reasoning. “He wasn’t even trying to be discreet.”

            “Or he was, and he’s just bad at it,” you suggested.

            Morgan was clicking the end of a pen on the desk. “Nah, these guys wouldn’t hire an amateur.”

            “Maybe they pegged her as a smart one and assumed she would have done her homework,” Rossi posited wryly. “After all, what’ve we got on this Gio guy? Nothing. A high-profile armament doesn’t just drop into his lap unless someone knows who pads his pockets.”

            “Then they’re definitely going to call on me again.” You just hoped they would have the class to not be like the femme fatale that had broken into Neal’s penthouse to call on him.

* * *

            When Hotchner called for the dismissal, telling everyone to pack up and go get some rest before morning, it was like he was the teacher and everyone else was racing to leave before he tacked on a last-minute homework assignment. You waited for the room to empty out while stretching in your chair, letting the tiredness show on your face. Undercover operations were always more taxing than you expected them to be.

            Morgan was the last in the conference room. The handsome agent had caught your interest several times – not just when he spoke, although you definitely liked that he had more than just a few brain cells floating around up there. JJ was pretty, and Reid was cute, but Morgan was _attractive,_ in the way that gets people a fan following on social media with tags that you wouldn’t want to read off in a room full of children.

            “Alright, Y/N.” He stopped while he was pushing in his chair and peered at you over the table, openly curious, but relaxed. “The suspense is gonna do me in if I don’t ask. So what’s it like? Being his sister.”

            You raised an eyebrow and glibly responded. “Got a friendship crush on my brother, Morgan?”

            He laughed, shaking his head. “Something like that shapes a person. Shapes their relationships. Siblings are impacted by how their brothers and sisters bond with them, the values they teach and the roles they fill. How did his antics fit into your life? Why did you let them stay?”

            You seriously considered not answering. You understood his curiosity – it was far from unique to him – and appreciated that he had asked without sounding underhanded or judgmental. In the moment, though, you decided that it wasn’t going to hurt anything, and maybe if you let him see a little more than the others could, then he’d be a bit more motivated to trust you and feel like he knew you. You’d seen Peter and Neal fight because of lacking trust too many times, and you wanted _real_ friendships, not friendships that fell apart as soon as there was a hint of doubt.

            “Believe it or not,” you started, choosing your words carefully and leaning on the table, “Neal gave me an ultimatum.” The agent’s eyebrows went up slightly in surprise. “Not as such,” you elaborated pensively, “He would never intentionally do that. But the context mandated it. It was never said, but I understood. _Be involved, and be my family. Or don’t, and…_ ” You stopped, shaking your head, being mindful how much information you gave out. Neal’s reasons for running were personal. Not so personal that they weren’t your business, because they were mostly about your family, but private enough not to want to share. “If I hadn’t gone, I would’ve been safe. I would’ve been free. I would’ve known that I could go home every day to a woman who loved us and took care of us and been fed and housed. But I also would’ve lost my brother, and to me, that was unfathomable.”

            Neal had promised, a long, _long_ time ago, that you were his best friend, and he would never leave you. It was entirely possible he hadn’t realized what he’d been making you choose between at the time, but though he said he understood completely if you chose to remain in St. Louis, you had intuitively known that the next time you’d see him could be decades away, if ever. Runaways don’t come back home when they intend to successfully run away.

            “Be involved?” Morgan repeated, crossing his arms.

            You surveyed his face and decided the gesture wasn’t in disapproval, so you expanded on it.

            “Not commit crime. Just run away.” You shrugged. “Be involved in his new life, whatever it meant. Neal did his best to keep me clean and safe, but… there’s always a degree of inevitability. Especially in a hypothetical situation where people want money and are allegedly more or less cheated out of it. I could’ve stayed or gone any time I wanted, but it wasn’t worth losing him.

            “We were a bit codependent.” You chuckled reminiscently. “Not as much anymore. It’s hard to be codependent when one of the parties are in prison.”

            “I bet.”

            You licked your lips and swallowed. “Anyway.” You stood up to leave. That was more sharing and caring than you usually did in a month, even with El, the undisputed queen of compassionate and empathetic conversation. “Neal was – and still is – my best friend. I’m not always happy with the choices he’s made. And I’m definitely not always happy with their consequences. Yet, I can never regret the choice I made to follow him. Whatever you might want to accuse him of, he has always done his best for the people he loves, and that’s better than a lot of others.”

            Before you left, you paused. And turned around. You’d tried explaining your story to a couple of people before, people you’d known longer and trusted more, and in spite of this, you had never had a more thoughtful or quiet audience.

            “Agent Morgan?” You let your own interest loose and looked right at him, making eye contact and holding it with piercing, alert brown eyes. “Do you believe that choices change the courses of our lives?”

            He pondered it a moment, then nodded decisively. “I do. Yes. One thought, one idea, one feeling in the right place, time, or context can be enough to have someone stoned for treason or venerated as a saint. It could leave in a moment or it could persist and become an entire cultural revolution. Why?”

            “Do you have any of those choices in your past?” You couldn’t help but ask and hope you weren’t going nosy.

            Morgan weighed this thoughtfully. “Oh, yes. Most definitely.” He decided, and seemed content to say so. Then, even though you thought it had been implied that you wanted to know a bit more than just the yes or no answer, he picked up his phone and left.

            You sucked on the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure whether or not you were a huge fan or Morgan’s quick leave, but you did know that the role he had chosen for himself, as an FBI agent, would either fill quickly without him or leave a gap in his team that damaged their effectiveness.

            Teams were like organisms, sometimes, except where Morgan’s was well-used to him and functioned like a well-oiled machine, Sofia was in the business of selling hers. There was something very poetic about how each of you used people and relationships to get where you needed to be, and for just a moment, you felt a hot flash of jealousy, because _you_ wanted to claim a sense of belonging. _You_ wanted to be able to say that you were required and comfortable.

            Except that was all very ridiculous and you shoved it aside as quickly as you could. Morgan had a pretty good life, from where you were standing, but that didn’t mean you wanted what he had. If you prioritized things like that, then you never would’ve run away with Neal in the first place. Right?

* * *

_It was a nightmare come true._

_You couldn’t convince yourself that Mozzie was lying, not after everything, not after hearing for yourself the recording of the gavel being banged._

_You cried into Neal’s shoulder while he cradled you lovingly, shushing you softly and rubbing up and down your back the same way he did after you were hurt in Copenhagen and he couldn’t take you to the hospital for fear of both of you being caught. While your shoulders shook, he was admirably composed for a man who knew he was hugging his sister for the last time for at least four years._

_“You should’ve let me do it,” you whimpered, digging your hands into his jacket. “I’m not eighteen for another few months. They might’ve charged me as a minor.”_

_“It’s a grand felony,” Neal gently corrected you, pushing your hair out of your face. “They’d have tried you as an adult. And you know I’d never let anything happen to you.”_

_“Like this is so much better,” you retorted. Despite that you were starting to argue, you still held tight to him. “You’re gonna be trapped in a cage and I’m gonna be alone.”_

_“You won’t,” he promised, rubbing a tear off of your face with an earnest, sentimental look on his face. “Mozzie and Kate will take care of you. Kate will make sure you’re not alone and Moz will keep you supplied with money, food, clothes – he has connections.”_

_You sniffed and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to memorize the blue and the youth in his face. You knew prison could change a person and couldn’t believe this would be your last opportunity to see your brother as you knew him now. “But they’re not you.”_

_His smile turned sad. “I know. I’m going to miss you, too, sweetie. We knew this could happen. I told you Burke was good.”_

_**Good?** Burke was taking your only family away. “I hope he goes to hell,” you spat hatefully._

_Neal’s surprised and scolding expression was the only reason you felt even a little bit remorseful for saying it. He tilted your chin to look at him in the eyes and said firmly, “Hey, don’t go there. He’s a good man, he’s doing his job. He told the DA I cooperated once I was caught. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be doing ten.”_

_“I still hate him enough for the both of us, since you’ve clearly lost your mind.” You mumbled into his shirt, hugging him tightly again and wishing you could ignore that Neal wasn’t wearing one of the nice suits he loved._

_He’d been forced to wear an outfit supplied by the Department of Justice instead._


	5. Chapter Five

            Although Mozzie seemed to think that you’d let yourself be handed over to the wolves, your case continued steadily. Over the next five days, you had been contacted by Gio and had another meeting with him, this time in an almost-empty library while you wore a wire underneath your bra strap. You talked shop. You knew how to shoot a gun, but you didn’t know how to smuggle them or what grade of weaponry he and his bosses would be after, so you repeated the information given to you in your earpiece by Agents Prentiss and Rossi during the meeting. You also lifted a cigarette butt that Gio had been smoking and got it to the CSI lab, where they sent Garcia their file on the DNA match and you positively confirmed who Gio was.

            While you were waiting for the next part of the operation, you kept talking with the BAU agents and irritating Ruiz with your mere presence. Morgan was the one you spoke with most, and the most candidly. There was something about him that made you feel like you could speak in confidence. Reid was also kind of a sweetheart, and he reminded you of Moz in some ways which made you more comfortable. JJ was also one of your favorites. She had a calm, caring demeanor like El but carried herself with the authority and confidence of an agent you could feel safe trusting your health to.

            “Boyfriend?” Morgan – well, Derek, as you called him now – asked, playing 20 Questions and bouncing a stress ball back and forth across the desk with you.

            You smirked. “Why, are you interested?” You caught the particularly hard throw and tossed it back. “No, for the record. Last one turned out to be a buzzkill.”

            “You mean a cop,” he accused lightly, his eyes a little mischievous and daring.

            Shaking your head, you repeated, “No, I mean just in general a buzzkill.” You grabbed the ball again and gave it a squeeze, battering it between your hands. “No wine, no dancing, ‘don’t run in the snow, there might be ice.’ And that counted as two questions.” While Derek protested that the second wasn’t a real question, just a follow-up, you threw the ball back at him and asked, “Dogs or cats?”

            “Dogs,” he replied with no hesitation. “Don’t tell Prentiss.”

            “And, let’s see, DC or Marvel?”

            “DC,” he replied easily, giving you a scolding look. “Superpowers versus a powered suit? Sorry, Iron Man, there’s no competition.”

            “Superpowers versus hyper intelligence,” you countered, because that was Iron Man’s real strength. “… But I see your point, a little bit.”

            Hotch clearing his throat made you both stop. You took your feet off of another of the chairs and let yours tip back down onto the floor evenly, sitting up straight. Derek tossed the stress ball over his shoulder towards the side of the room without blinking, pretending he hadn’t been playing with it. The boss looked at the two of you both a little sternly, like he knew you hadn’t been working.

            “We’ve been so productive,” you promised, reading the expression. “Already did a cognitive interview.” Derek walked you through one of your meeting with Frank Gambino, and Garcia did a comparison against the DMV and the sketch from the artist you sat down with and confirmed you had met with the Don.

            “You’re about to get even more productive,” Hotch decreed, pulling out a seat and sitting at the table with his crossed arms on top. “Sofia’s burner phone just got a text with GPS coordinates, a time, and a date.”

            You perked up, intrigued and a little excited to see it through. “Think this is the drop?” You asked, eager to finish playing your part and see the rats get put in cages. Neal was your loved one and he went out of his way to make sure no one was hurt; those that took financial hits were always people who could afford to lose. The Gambinos were just monsters, plain and simple.

            Hotch was nodding while Derek took a photograph of your burner phone’s screen, then gave it to you with the text pulled up. You noted that the time was in military time and Gio was planning on you being there that night. “Wow. He moves quick,” you remarked.

            “There’s a cargo ship sailing into a northern shipping dock this evening,” Hotch explained. “Garcia got ahold of someone with SECNAV and found it’s sailing in from a region known for its loose handle on guns and similar dangerous equipment. With the information you floated undercover, they’re likely betting that her armament is on that ship. They want to trade hands at the docks.”

            “Get done with me before moving the goods, so I don’t get to see where they take it.” You realized, and yeah, that was pretty smart. You had to applaud them for doing their research.

            “That’s our thought, too,” Hotch agreed with you. “If all goes well, we can nab them as soon as Frank Gambino shows up. With the probable cause, not to mention the incriminating audio you’ve recorded, we can get a warrant and search his premises. Anything we find there can be added to the prosecutors’ case.”

            “So I just need to show up, get them comfortable, and wait for Derek and his raid party,” you summarized, giving the younger agent a sidelong, confident look. _We’ve got this,_ you told him with your eyes, and he hid a smile by looking down to the table, shaking his head slightly at your assurance and enthusiasm. “It’s practically in the bag already.”

            Gio met you – well, Sofia – outside of the shipyard. You were pretty sure that you were supposed to need an ID card to get in, but there was no one on duty at the gate and Gio had a code that seemed to open it up. You sent a glance towards the guard’s booth and made a mental note to send someone there ASAP to make sure it really was empty, and the guard wasn’t lying incapacitated.

            “So polite of you to come at last notice,” Gio told you, seeming like he was trying to be conversational. He was definitely wearing an earpiece and made no attempts at hiding it, and you wondered if you’d hear Frank’s voice if it were just a little louder.

            “Business is business,” you replied coolly, not giving anything away. “I like closing deals, just like any businessperson.”

            Gio socialized poorly, like he was usually taciturn, but he had never been quiet for very long before. You didn’t think much of it when he didn’t continue making small talk with you. If Frank just wanted to get this over with, fine. You at least had that much in common. The muscleman led you through the shipyard. You checked your watch after walking four minutes, glanced around for the sunset, and realized you were going east. When Gio stopped finally in the midst of a collection of unloaded trans-Atlantic shipping containers – huge metal boxes, coated in solid copper, silver, and red coats – you felt a little overwhelmed. The containers were too big to see around and created the impression that you were in a maze.

            _Is it intentional?_ You wondered as Gio looked down at his phone, continuing to hold his silence. You had him in a shipyard he wasn’t supposed to be in, waiting for a nonexistent armament of smuggled firearms. As soon as Frank showed up, your job was done, and you could leave, and you knew that the tracking aspect of your watch meant there were FBI agents tailing you.

            You didn’t wait long, just standing there like a sitting duck and looking around yourself. The rendezvous point reminded you of a scene from NCIS. (You were pretty sure the scene you were remembering didn’t end well for Tony or Ziva.) Then there were more footsteps, faint at first but growing in volume, and metal-toed boots carried in an Italian-looking man you’d never seen before on your left. Just then you realized that you were in a narrow cross-section of the containers and looked to your right. A second man, this one looking less Italian and more Latin American, came from that direction; from around a container at your front approached a man you remembered seeing at the library in your last clandestine meeting, but you hadn’t flagged him as another henchman. Now you knew better.

            _Surrounded on all sides… which means…_

            You turned around slowly while putting your hands up to show you were harmless. Frank Gambino slunk up behind you, wearing leather loafers and a grey tweed suit. He was immaculately groomed, looked richly dressed, and though he was short, he had an air of power and intimidation around him that you could see the others felt, too. It was the kind of atmosphere Keller wanted to carry but just never could manage.

            “Sofia,” Frank said genially to you, with a handsome smile above his dark beard. He had a wide face, thin eyebrows, and pink, sun-damaged cheeks. And a handgun clenched in his dominant fist. “ _Cara ragazza_. Thank you for coming, really, it makes my job so much easier.”

            He raised the handgun. You lifted your hands higher above your head and locked your eyes on his. You knew it made you seem more controlled, but its main purpose was to keep you from staring at the weapon pointed right at your face.

            “What’s this about, Frank?” You asked, forcing your tone light. You were a few notches higher than usual. “I thought we were friends. Ish.”

            “I did, too. Then, me and my boys, we thought, save the pretty girl the trouble, unload the shipment for her.” Frank gestured around you at the containers and you saw with a start that they’d been _opened_ , left just slightly ajar. _They went through everything._ “And wire your money through those lovely islands. Except… there’s one problem. There’s no shipment.

            “Your references checked out at first,” the Don continued, giving you credit and waving the gun slightly as if in praise. “Convincing cover. Dig a little deeper, though, and Rydell’s burnt. He was one of us because he went away. Know how to look, work the system, he never went _away._ ”

            You cursed under your breath. In most cases, convictions were public record. Neal’s alias of Gary Rydell had been arrested to preserve his cover, but Frank or one of the people who work for him must have searched for more info to prove that Rydell was legit and found that the man never _really_ existed… at least, not the way you’d led them to believe.

            “It will be a shame to ruin such a beautiful face,” Frank mourned, considering your scowling expression. “But then, no cop can be as beautiful as liberty.” One side of his mouth lifted up and he cocked the gun, preparing to fire. “I do love your American values.”

            It would have been such a cliché to say that your life flashed. You’d come close to dying on many occasions, and you’d never actually had your life flash before your eyes. You had regrets and you had thoughts, and you missed people, and you wanted your mom before she became so distant or you wanted Ellen because you thought of her as a mother, too. This was the first time you’d really had memories come to mind while looking down the barrel of a gun, and it was probably because your family been right, this was too dangerous, and you hoped they wouldn’t feel too guilty because everything that had happened had been your choice.

 

_Neal raised a glass towards you with a serene smile, both of you around his dining table in the penthouse. “To first drinks,” he offered as a toast._

_You snorted. “Neal, you gave me my first drink when I was sixteen.”_

_“Yeah,” he recalled, nodding with a smirk, “But this is the first time we’ve drank together while it’s legal.”_

_You rubbed your eyes again and let him celebrate. You’d let him celebrate any stupid thing he wanted as long as he wasn’t wearing an orange jumpsuit._

_A knock on the door came before it was opened, but only just. Before Neal could say so much as an invitation, it was being pushed on. It was left unlocked, so a tall man in a suit came right on inside, looking around curiously._

_“Nice place,” he commented. You held your tongue from everything you wanted to say. You’d never forget what Peter Burke looked like for as long as you lived. He was the man who’d taken Neal away for **years.**_

_As if he knew what you were thinking – and hell, he probably did – Neal reached for your hand and squeezed softly under the table, where Peter couldn’t see, trying to remind you that he would still be in jail if the FBI agent hadn’t chosen to take a chance on him. It didn’t matter. Peter was still your least favorite person._

_“Oh, you had company,” Peter said in surprise, just noticing you. You smiled thinly. He smiled back, uncomfortably, not recognizing you. “Well, um – you didn’t mention you had a date.” He said to Neal._

_You both looked at each other in horror. “Oh, God, no,” you both objected simultaneously, devolving into hurried assurances that you were not, in fact, dating. You departed soon after, bitter and angry at Peter for interrupting your first evening with your brother in more than four years._

            _Give me a different memory,_ you thought at your brain angrily. _Give me a happier one. Where I’m not so pissed off at Peter anymore, because now he’s like family._ That gun was still there, waving in front of your face, and you didn’t want to die _period_ but especially not with resentment towards someone who you wanted to think about with respect and love. It was hard to think, though – whatever came to mind just happened to be what you remembered, and the panic and fear and adrenaline clouded everything else.

            Everything except for your current senses, which were still ready to fight or to take flight. You darted your eyes around fearfully like a bird looking for a safe escape, and encroaching on all sides from around shipping crates and the large metal containers you saw FBI agents in Kevlar vests. It could’ve been Peter or Hotch or even Ruiz, and you still would have felt like the sky had opened up and shone a ray of angelic, saving light on you. Derek’s voice magnified in a bullhorn made your knees weak.

_“Put the gun down! You are surrounded!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is only one more chapter left in this short series. It was originally meant to be a oneshot, but it's ending up about 15K long in total.


	6. Chapter Six

            The takedown went so quickly that your head spun. Before you even realized you were safe, agents in thick body armor were coming in from all sides, cuffing and hauling off everyone, even Frank. You were the only one left free, and slowly, the adrenaline was replaced with both relief and with a bone-deep tiredness that made you want to flop onto the nearest soft furniture and sleep for a whole day.

            Hotch took your statement – “to tie up the loose ends,” he said – and then… the case was over. A week’s worth of work, finished just like that. You wondered if Neal always felt like he’d missed a step when the big ones came to a close. You would get whiplash if things ended any faster.

            “Wait, that’s it?” You asked, catching Derek in the office while he and Reid were passing by, both of them shouldering small duffel bags. “It’s over, done, I’m safe and you’re leaving?”

            Reid briefly excused himself to go wait in the car. Derek put his bag down by his feet so that you could talk for a couple of minutes without feeling hurried. “Yeah, that’s it,” he answered, shrugging with one shoulder. “The court case will be handled by the organized crime team here. Agent Ruiz.”

            “Ruiz hates me,” you grumbled.

            He smirked a little, amused. “I noticed the first day.”

            “How soon does your plane leave?” You asked, pursing your lips. You didn’t want to put your finger on why you were disappointed, but you weren’t ready to see them go… you weren’t ready to see _Derek_ go, in particular. You hadn’t met anyone like him before. You’d never been so readily comfortable opening up to anyone before, and now he was just taking off.

            Derek looked at you for a few seconds, his eyes moving past yours and over your face. You kept your eyes on his the whole time, knowing full well that he was looking for a hint at what you were up to. For once, you weren’t up to anything. You just didn’t want him to go yet.

            “We aren’t going until the morning,” he replied at last. “Nine.”

            “We never finished our game of 20 Questions,” you reminded him, using it as an excuse and hoping he thought it was a good one. “Neal owns a bakery by the courthouse. It’s got coffee, and fantastic strudels.”

            Neal was waiting in Peter’s office when you went up to the twenty-first floor. He came hurrying out when you had barely even stepped off of the elevator, and he met you halfway to the mezzanine. Peter came out of his office and looked over the rail on the higher level, watching as Neal pulled you to his chest in a tight, worried hug.

            “We heard they made you,” your brother whispered, moving his hand down your hair and pulling back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

            You nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m okay. The BAU got there in time. Not a scratch on me.”

            “Sounds like I won’t have to file any complaints after all,” Peter said jokingly, sending Neal a pointed look. You got the feeling he had been overreacting when he got the news. The FBI agent gave you a warm smile next. “Good to have you back on our team, Y/N. I hate it when Ruiz poaches my best workers.”

            “Best worker?” You repeated, looking up at Neal to boast about your new rank.

            The thief smacked your arm lightly. “One of. I’m the other.”

            “Come on, then,” Peter invited, folding his jacket over his arm. “I’ll give you both a ride home.”

            “Actually,” you objected, getting both of them to look at you and sheepishly explaining, “I have a date.”

            _“What the hell are you trying to do here, Neal?” Peter paced irately in his kitchen. El had given everyone coffee, then made herself scarce. You and your brother both shared discreet looks at each other in between the appropriate guilty expressions and apologetic winces. “She’s a civilian. You can’t involve civilians. You involving her compromises the case! It compromises your deal! Do you **want** to go back to Sing Sing?”_

_“No!” You burst forth, looking up quickly. Neal reached across the table for your clasped hands and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles comfortingly. Peter was shocked you were the one to speak up. You had learned to hold your tongue, but you felt safe around Peter and Elizabeth; safe enough to not want to hold your tongue when you had something to say. “Please, Peter,” you pleaded, swallowing fearfully. “Please don’t send him back. I’ll tell the bureau it was my fault, they can’t punish him for something someone else did.”_

_“They also can’t punish a civilian who doesn’t know any better.” You thought you saw sympathy in Peter’s expression, but just as much as there was compassion, there was also rigid sternness._

_“But I **do** know better! I know Neal better than anyone! I know what I’m getting into when I approach him – you can’t say he can’t see me anymore!” You were desperate. You just couldn’t let your brother go back to jail. It had been hard to get by without him, even though you’d had Mozzie and Kate._

_Peter leaned over the table, pressing his hands down on the surface. He met your eyes, letting you take your own battle instead of forcing Neal to be the go-between. You didn’t want Neal to choose sides between his sister and his handler. You knew which was safer for him to do, and you knew which he would choose, and they weren’t the same._

_“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t punish Neal for giving sensitive information about his work-release to someone who doesn’t have the clearance to work with the FBI.” Peter gently coerced. The unspoken ‘or else’ made you nervous, even though you knew you didn’t have reason to be._

_You had an excellent reason. Turning your hand over, you laced your fingers through Neal’s and squeezed his hand, as if demonstrating to Peter exactly how close you were to each other. “You can’t punish him for sharing with me because we’re the only family we have.”_

            Derek listened while you recounted the story. As you already knew, he was an excellent listener. Once you gestured with your hand that you were finished, he responded, “I bet he never let that go.”

            “No,” you agreed, snorting. “When he meets one of our friends, he still asks if they’re a brother or sister he wasn’t told about.” You took a quick sip of your coffee. Neal wasn’t very involved with the operation of his bakery, but he did visit once in a while to make sure it was up to snuff. He wasn’t putting his name on anything that didn’t meet his standards.

            “Your turn,” Derek replied, reminding you that the story had been a tangent to support your answer.

            You smiled and teased, “What about you? Is there a brother or sister I haven’t been told about?”

            He turned a blindingly bright smile on you and chuckled, holding his coffee in both hands to keep warm. “Two, yeah. Desiree and Sarah. We may not be quite as exciting as world-traveling con artists,” he started to say.

            “Alleged!” You interjected, laughing.

            “ _-Alleged_ con artists,” he amended, his warm brown eyes settling on you affectionately, “But we’re pretty awesome.”

            “ _You’re_ pretty awesome,” you said back to him, softer, being charming and flattering but trying not to let it be about showiness or brownie points. You felt it, and you wanted him to know it. If he knew you felt that way, then getting a _second_ date would be much easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! I expected it to be longer, but this tied things up and felt like the natural ending. Thanks to everyone for reading!


End file.
